


Migraine

by marysueheaven



Category: X-Men Evolution
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, OC-centric, Sort Of, and also like, introspective?, it's mostly just thoughts is what I mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:20:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26788849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysueheaven/pseuds/marysueheaven
Summary: He doesn’t want to call her. Really. Except that he does, so badly, and he can barely think straight, and he’s pretty sure he’s about to throw up again, and all he can think about is her running cool fingers through his hair.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Migraine

**Author's Note:**

> A quick commish I did, posted with permission.

Piper is trouble. Lance knows that. She’s told them all a thousand times, laughingly, or tiredly, or sadly, or, or, or. She’s dangerous, and she brings enemies with her like travel companions. For the short time she’d lived with them officially, back when Mystique dipped the first time, she’d been impossible. And sure, it was more being pissed at Magneto than anything else, but still.

Plus she’d ditched the first chance she got, and it didn’t hurt, _it didn’t_ , only he kept looking at the door for months afterwards, waiting for her to walk through it. 

The biggest problem with Piper, though, is that she came back. Pietro got sick, and then he got sicker, and they were just about considering taking him to the x-geeks, really things were that desperate, when she showed up. Breezed through the door like she’d been gone hours instead of months, with a plastic CVS bag swinging from a wrist, and the house key that they’d been looking for since she left jingling in a hand.

“Well it’s no wonder Hermes got sick,” she’d said, affectionately mocking, “This place looks like a dumping ground for toxic waste.”

And before any of them had a chance to kick her out she was in Pietro’s room, feeding him pills, forcing water down his throat, making soup in the kitchen. Lance found himself at the grocery store, comparing brands of bone broth, without even realizing what had happened. 

When Pietro got better she left again. No word of warning, no note, no good-bye. He went down to make the coffee, and her boots weren’t by the door anymore. And this time he couldn’t pretend it didn’t hurt.

But Lance was used to that, getting hurt by people he cared about, so he ignored it in favor of more important things. Like figuring out a relationship with the girl he regularly got in physical fights with, and the absolute least amount of work he could do without flunking out of highschool. And it was fine.

Except then she did it again. It had started as some stupid scrap with the x-geeks, but it went too far, got out of hand, and she’d showed in _Lance’s own jeep_ , all squealing tires and loud music.

“Unbelievable,” she’d sighed, looking around at the mess. “Get in the damn car.” And then she’d driven them home, like someone’s pissed off mom dragging them home from a party, complete with the subsequent lecture.

Granted her’s had more to do with picking fights they were sure to lose, and knowing when to bail, than anything else, but the point stands. 

And then she just kept doing it. Sometimes she brought money for the bills, sometimes she came to argue with the landlord, sometimes it was food. She never stayed long, and she complained the whole time, but still.

Eventually she’d had enough, and shoved a scrap of paper into Lance’s hand on her way out the door.

“It’s annoying as shit, this always being a fucking guessing game,” she’d said. “This number is for emergencies _only_ , and I really mean _only_ . You call me for some dumb shit _one time_ , and your contact privilges are revoked as fuck.”

Lance had made himself a silent promise not to call the number, and even _he_ wasn’t sure why. Didn’t want to get used to having her around, maybe. Too much of a pussy to admit he didn’t hate her. Just never learned to ask for help. Afraid that he’d call, and she wouldn’t come, that the line would ring, and ring, and ring, and she’d never answer. Or, even worse, she’d pick up, promise she was on her way, and then just never show.

Except right now he’s lying on the floor in the bathroom, lights off, head pounding, feeling like his skull is expanding and contracting, and he needs _help_ . Pietro is outside the door, pacing, anxious, muttering under his breath too fast for any of them to understand, and Lance is stuck. His head weighs four thousand pounds, approximately, and his eyes hurt like someone’s trying to push them into his head, and he can’t fucking _move_. 

And that paper she’d shoved at him is in his hand, thumb rubbing over the numbers; it’s pretty much illegible at this point, crumpled, and smudged, because he can’t stop messing with it. He doesn’t want to call her. He _doesn’t._

It’s only, he keeps remembering the last time his head hurt like this. She showed up that time, and god, what a fucking _relief_ it had been. She put Fred and Todd in the kitchen, she set Pietro cleaning the house, she was In Charge, the way Lance usually was. She took care of things. She took care of his team.

More than that though, she took care of _him_ , in a way that he didn’t let anyone else, couldn’t remember anyone else doing. Carried him to bed, shockingly strong for her size, massaged his head with gentle hands, placed ice chips on his tongue.

_“You’ll get dehydrated.”_

_“‘F I drink I’ll throw up.”_

_“Oh. Okay, that’s fine. I’ve got an idea.”_

He doesn’t want to call her. Really. Except that he does, so badly, and he can barely think straight, and he’s pretty sure he’s about to throw up again, and all he can think about is her running cool fingers through his hair. 

Getting his phone out of his pocket is a monumental effort, and if he wasn’t already panting, then he would be, after all that. Trying to dial the damn number is even worse. His phone lights up so bright he honestly can’t see for a moment, and then he has to actually _dial the number_ , squinting at the glowing keys. 

The ringing of the phone almost lays him out again, and he’s about to just hang up, because it feels like someone’s drilling through the back of his skull, when she answers.

“Talk,” she says, slightly out of breath, and Lance is pretty sure he hears gunshots in the background.

“Piper,” he mumbles, “Can you-” he pauses, unable to catch his breath enough to finish the sentence, even.

“6 minutes,” she says, and hangs up. 

When Piper says six minutes, she means six minutes, so he’s only got to wait that long to be disappointed. Stuck in this weird limbo, where he tells himself over and over that she’s not coming, and he needs to get his shit together, but also, he can’t stop listening for the door. In the end, he doesn’t even hear her come in.

“Lance,” she says, so quietly, so gently, and he feels so shitty he’s not even embarrassed about the way he reaches out for her.

“Jeez, kid,” she sighs, taking his hand, rubbing her thumb in gentle circles over his pulse point. “Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

“D’ know,” he mumbles.

“I do,” she murmurs, so softly he probably isn’t supposed to hear her, but then she’s lifting him up, so smoothly he barely feels the ground dropping away, and carrying him to his room on silent feet. 

He’s in and out of awareness for a while. She’s propping him up against some pillows, she’s running cool fingers through her hair, she’s feeding his ice chips. She’s crawling in bed beside him, rubbing his neck, doing that pressure-point thing that he can’t figure out how to do on his own. There’s a bag of ice on his head, and it’s so cold, it almost hurts.

“Sorry about this, Sweetheart,” she whispers, and he doesn’t have time to ask what for before she shoots some weird spray up his nostril, and he’s coughing, and confused, and annoyed. She just shushes him, stroking his cheek, and then feeds him some syrupy medicine, and he’s finally, _finally_ , asleep.

When he wakes up, his migraine is gone, and Piper is too. The rush of disappointment is almost too much, because he should be used to this by now, honestly, he’s such a fucking-

“Feeling better, Kid?” Piper asks, walking into his bedroom, two cups of coffee steaming in her hands.

“Yeah,” Lance mumbles to the sheets, because the rush of relief he feels is just embarrasing. 

“Good,” she says, shoving a mug into his hand, “Because you’re in trouble.”

“Huh?”

“I’ve said it a million fucking times, Lance, really. If you have a migraine, lying down flat is only gonna make it worse. Take the painkillers _before_ it gets really bad. Don’t get dehydrated. The bathroom floor is not a good place for a nap. Any of these sound familiar?”

Shame lights up in him, hot, and sick, because she’s scolding him like he’s a fucking kid, and she saw him acting like one, weak, and pathetic. She saw him lying on the floor, shivering, sweating, god, he’s pretty sure he tried to hold her hand. 

“Lance?” Piper says, and she sounds concerned again, _gentle_ again, and that’s just the push over the cliff.

“Yeah, well, I’m fucking sorry, okay? So sorry that I interrupted your super important life, and your super important schedule, by being a pathetic shithead. My fucking bad. Next time I’ll just-”

“Lance,” she says, and he stops. God, he hates how she can do that.

“What?”

“Next time call me sooner,” she says. “I gave you that number so you would use it. I don’t want you to be passing out on the bathroom floor.”

“Yeah, well, whatever.”

“Lance,” she repeats, and this time he makes the mistake of looking into her eyes, and they aren’t cold, and sharp, the way they usually are. They’re soft. Like fog, instead of steel. It almost hurts to look into them, but he can’t look away.

“I am trying to help you,” she says softly, so softly, and he feels it, like a physical pain, like a crack in his ribcage. “Let me help you. Please.”

The ‘please’ is what breaks him. Piper doesn’t ask for things. She takes, and she barters, and she cheats, and she steals, and she orders. Even the simplest request becomes a command when she says it.

“Why? Why do you even care?” Lance can’t stop himself from asking, even though he knows using the C-word will scare her off. Maybe _because_ he knows the C-word will scare her off.

Like flipping a switch, she’s herself again. Her eyes go back to being cold, sharp, dangerous. You could cut yourself looking at them too long.

“I’ve gotta go,” she says, and she’s already standing, already leaving, and Lance is just so fucking _stupid_ , because he calls after her.

“Piper.”

She pauses in the doorway, tense, ready to run, unnerved in the way that only accusations of feelings make her.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says.

“Yeah.”

And something in his chest loosens, ever so slightly. 


End file.
